Syzygy
by Al
Summary: MWPP. Strange happenings are afoot in the summer of 1981.
1. Chapter One.

DISCLAIMER: All recognisable characters, concepts and locations belong in their entirety to J.K. Rowling, her publishers and associated production companies, none of which I am affiliated with in any way  
  
SYZYGY  
CHAPTER ONE.  
  
"Syzygy," Peter said, reading aloud from the dictionary. "Pronounced siz' i-ji. Noun, conjunction or opposition: the period of new or full moon: a dipody ... plural ..."  
  
"Let me see that," James held his hand out for the dictionary, and reluctantly, Peter handed it over. James rested it on the floor, and bent over it, his fingers tracing swiftly along the printed words, seeking and eventually finding the definition he was looking for. His eyes scanned the page, taking it in.  
  
"Is it?" asked Sirius.  
  
James nodded. "It's in," he said. "You can have it."  
  
"Bollocks!" swore Sirius.  
  
Peter grinned evilly, and took up the pencil. "Another two hundred points to me ... on a triple word score, and using the y from yarmulke, which, as we all remember, is a type of hat worn by ..."  
  
"It puts you three hundred points in the lead, Peter," James interjected. He checked his pieces again. As was customary when playing wizarding scrabble, the letters had altered themselves whilst he had been looking away, and he had lost 'zupa,' a collection of village communities, governed by a 'zupan,' in the early history of Serbia. In its place he had gained 'zoanthropy,' which means a form of mental delusion in which a man believes himself to be an animal. However, by the grin on Peter's face, he could tell that even this would not be enough to pull the game.  
  
"Tent!" said Sirius, triumphantly. "On an octuple word score ... oh bugger!"  
  
"On a minus word score," corrected James. "Sirius, it isn't your lucky night. That puts you on minus sixteen. So, the scores stand at ..."  
  
"The bloody board is favouring Peter," Sirius snapped, folding his arms and looking most contrary. "I say we play snakes and ladders."  
  
"My go," said James gaily. "Spinifex ... that's a genus of Australian grasses ... you can look it up if you'd like ..."  
  
"I won't bother," Sirius snarled. "Your turn, Wormy," he added, through gritted teeth.  
  
Peter smiled again. "Well, look now," he said. "Percolin, a small bird, a cross between a partridge and a quail."  
  
"Still playing, boys?"  
  
All three of them looked up. Lily was standing in the doorway, holding a tray on which stood three small glasses, each containing a viscous black liquid, topped with cream.  
  
"I thought you might like some coffee," she said. "I put whiskey in it."  
  
"Capital," said Peter, smacking his lips. "You wouldn't have any more of those cigars, would you?"  
  
Lily Potter rolled her eyes. "You smoked the last one last time you came round here," she said. "I'm just going to put the tray on top of the telly, over here. Bedtime soon, eh, Jamie?"  
  
Sirius barely stifled a snigger at this.  
  
"Don't be so bloody immature," Lily said in jest. "And you might not make so much noise too. I've only just settled Harry again."  
  
James glanced at the sterling silver carriage clock which sat atop the mantelpiece. It had been a present from his Grandfather, and what was more, it was a proper, Muggle clock: one which actually told the time. Currently it was twenty five minutes past midnight.  
  
Peter yawned on cue.  
  
"Is he having a restless night?" James asked, reaching for the Irish coffee. He handed the little glasses to Peter and Sirius.  
  
"He's already woken up three times," Lily said. She was looking flustered ... her cheeks were red through exertion and her hair unkempt and dishevelled. "I think he's worried about something. And he seems to be running a fever. I've given him some Calpol. He's sleeping now ... and so should you boys be. We've a busy day ahead of us."  
  
"I am very tired, you know," Sirius said. "I think I might go to bed as well ..."  
  
"Coward," Peter muttered. "Stay and be routed like a man!"  
  
"Well, I put the camp beds up in the spare room," Lily said. "There's fresh towels for you, and if you need another blanket, then take one. I'll," she paused to yawn, "I'll see you all in the morning. I want to leave at eight sharp."  
  
"Goodnight."  
  
"Night, Lil."  
  
"Night," said Sirius, barely looking up. Lily slipped out of the room, and closed the door behind her. Outside, raindrops coursed down the windowpanes and lightning forked across an angry sky. It was high summer ... but it didn't feel like it. There was a coldness about the air, a sense of menace seemed to pervade every room of the tiny, stone cottage. It even spooked James ... even with the lights switched on in every room. And it very definitely spooked Harry. The child had been consistently ill since their arrival. He was irritable and moody, and most unlike his normal self. Lily had begun to worry that the atmosphere might be stunting him in some way, either mentally or physically. Whatever the reason was, the fact remained that Godric's Hollow was just not right. The sooner they could move on, the better. James shuddered.  
  
"Pencil," said Sirius. "Twenty points."  
  
"That puts you on four," said Peter, yawning. "Want to call it a night?"  
  
"I think," James said, draining his coffee in one gulp, "that that might be a very good idea."  
  
***  
  
Harry mewled unhappily in his cot as James stumbled past the bedroom door. His headaches were coming again, and with greater frequency now, and even a trip to the apothecary down in Hogsmeade had not been able to sort him out. He clutched his hand to his forehead as a fresh wave of pain broke over him. He was dimly aware of Harry clinging to the bars of the cot, watching him through doe-like eyes.  
  
Water. Get water.  
  
He stumbled into the bathroom, and flicked on the light. As he did so, another rumble of thunder echoed across the moors. The wind was picking up. James eyed himself in the shaving mirror. He looked dreadful ... his eyes were bloodshot, and he didn't think it was through all the alcohol he had drunk. He opened the cold tap on the washbasin, and stuck his head under it, allowing the icy flow to trickle down his throat. Why did I wake up? What's going on?  
  
Lightning flashed again, followed, just seconds later, by another peal of thunder.  
  
The lights went out. James stood up quickly, and cracked his skull on the shaving mirror.  
  
"Shit!"  
  
He could hear Harry crying. He fumbled blindly in the dark for a towel to pat his mouth dry. Damn fool for leaving your wand in the bedroom! James cursed mentally. He pushed open the bathroom door, and stepped out onto the landing. They had not had carpets put down yet, and the floorboards were nasty and grimy under his bare feet.  
  
"What's happening?"  
  
There was a dim, shadowy shape standing on the stairs. Sirius.  
  
"Just a power cut," said James. "Get them all the time round here."  
  
"Ah," Sirius said. He yawned again, and scratched his head. "Well ... m'going back to bed."  
  
James nodded. "Just going to check on the kid," he said.  
  
He stepped into Harry's bedroom. Harry was sitting cross legged in the cot, the sheets drawn up around him, rocking backwards and forwards and whimpering to himself. James flicked the light switch, but, as he suspected, nothing   
happened.  
  
"You okay, Bambi?" he asked, tiptoeing over to the cot. Harry watched him intently, and sniffed. Lightning flashed again outside, briefly illuminating Harry's face. His emerald green eyes seemed to be even brighter than usual.  
James plucked the tiny boy out of his cot, and padded over to the window seat, all the while stroking Harry's back rhythmically, as he had seen Lily do so many times.  
  
"S'okay darling. I've got you. I've got you."  
  
He bent down to kiss Harry on the head, and run his fingers through the boy's mop of jet black hair. Harry squirmed in his arms, but made no attempt to get free.  
  
"Nightmare, was it?" James asked. The Quidditch mobile Sirius had bought him on his first birthday was rotating slowly overhead, the players chasing each other round and round in a never-ending spiral. Harry said nothing.  
  
"I can't sleep either," said James. "So that makes two of us, doesn't it, darling? Silly old Prongs can't sleep either."  
  
Harry whispered something that sounded like, "Prongs."  
  
"What's the matter, eh?"  
  
Harry did not reply, instead, he sniffed again.  
  
"I think you had a nightmare," said James.  
  
"Ight ... ightmayer," Harry said.  
  
James ran his hand across Harry's fevered brow ... and was mildly surprised when his hand came away wet.  
  
"Harry?"  
  
The power came back on at that point, and Lily was suddenly framed in the doorway. Her nightdress was hanging slightly off one shoulder.  
  
"What's happening?" she asked.  
  
"Harry," said James, simply. He cast his eyes back down to Harry's forehead. The boy was blinking in the sudden bright light. But ... that ... that's blood.  
  
"Lily."  
  
"What is it?"  
  
"I think he's cracked his head. I think he's bleeding," said James. "Go get me some cotton wool and stuff."  
  
Lily paled. "I'll be right back."  
  
James traced his fingers along the cut, wiping clean the blood, staining his fingertips as he did so. Harry whined impatiently.  
  
"Daddy!"  
  
"M'right here, Harry. I've got you," James said. His eyes drifted to the cut again. Except there was no cut this time.  
  
"Harry?"  
  
James gingerly put his fingers to Harry's forehead again. There was no trace of blood. There was no mark, no broken skin, there was nothing whatsoever to suggest any physical injury at all.  
  
"Holy Mothe ..." James began.  
  
As he spoke, a single drop of blood detached itself from Harry's forehead, and trickled slowly downwards. James made no attempt to stop it. And now, more was coming, slowly and relentlessly dripping from what was ... apparently, a non-existent cut.  
  
"Shit," James said. "Oh shit ... oh shit ... Lily!"  
  
His wife appeared in the doorway again, her auburn hair cascading down her back. In her hand she was holding a box of plasters and a bag of cotton wool buds.  
  
"Thank God..."  
  
"What ... I was only in the next room. There's no need to bloody shout."  
  
Harry screwed up his face, and began to snivel. James patted him again on the back. Crimson blood was flowing freely now, staining Harry's pyjama top and James' chest. He hugged his son closer.  
  
"It won't stop," he said, looking up. "It won't stop and there's no fucking cut on him! There isn't a mark on him!"  
  
TO BE CONTINUED?  



	2. Chapter Two.

DISCLAIMER: All recognisable characters, concepts and locations belong in their entirety to J.K. Rowling, her publishers and associated production companies, none of which I am affiliated with in any way.  
  
And yes, the words in the Prologue did come from the dictionary ... they're all in there. I don't own the dictionary, either.  
  
Thanks to everyone who reviewed, it still (after ten months writing here) means a lot to me!  
  
SYZYGY  
CHAPTER TWO.  
  
For a moment, Lily just stood there, looking at James with an expression approaching stunned disbelief written across her face.  
  
James' eyes darted back to Harry. Still, the thick, crimson blood was trickling freely ...  
  
Lily padded across the room. "I don't see anything," she said. "What's to see?"  
  
James looked up at her. "What's to see? He's fucking bleeding, Lily!"  
  
"He's absolutely fine."  
  
She craned over them both, her hair brushing against James' bare shoulders, tickling him. Harry blinked owlishly, and stretched out tiny fingers. Lily took his hand in her own.  
  
"See?"  
  
James suddenly felt very sick indeed. He looked down at Harry's pyjamas. They had little flying griffins on them, flapping their wings. There was no trace of blood.  
  
"Eug bub bus," said Harry, plaintively.  
  
James ran fingers tentatively across the boy's forehead. "Bambi? Are you fucking with Daddy's mind?"  
  
"Fuzzg!" said Harry, clutching Lily's hand in that exceptionally tight grip of his, which they had come to fear above Voldemort himself.  
  
"Nothing whatsoever to be worried about," Lily said, "nothing at all, James. How much did you have to drink?"  
  
"Don't be silly," James snapped.  
  
Lily rolled her eyes. "Harry is fine ... he's beyond fine. He's absolutely fine. Now let's go back to bed. You're thoroughly overexciting the poor boy. Heaven knows he's going to be excited enough tomorrow."  
  
James stood up, causing the ancient leather seat to creak somewhat alarmingly. He looked around the nursery. Golden snitches were chasing one another round and round the wall frieze, pursued by a cherubic looking seeker on a broomstick. The bookshelves were crammed with all the books that nobody ever seemed to read, and the floor was littered with toys, mainly die-cast Dinky cars, for which Harry had developed a taste. In one corner was a vast pile of cuddly toys.  
  
The whole room suddenly seemed dangerous.  
  
"I'd be happier if he slept in the big bed with us, tonight," James said.  
  
Lily looked at him disapprovingly. "We've got over this," she sighed. "Leave him be in here. If it makes you feel any better, I'll cast a baby monitoring charm ... we'll hear him immediately if something goes wrong," she put a supporting hand on James' shoulder ... and the sudden warmth surprised him. He had not realised he was that cold.  
  
"Put him to bed," Lily said softly.  
  
Reluctantly, James crossed the room, and lowered Harry, who was still wide awake, back into his cot. "Do you want Mr Snaggles?" he asked, reaching for a huge, overstuffed black bear from the pile. "Do you?"  
  
Lily grinned. "I'll fix some milk ... help you sleep."  
  
She crossed to the door, then turned, smiled, and was gone, her footsteps heavy on the uncarpeted landing. James deposited the black bear in Harry's cot. It curled up next to him, and growled contentedly. Harry's eyes were half closed as James tucked him up under the blankets.  
  
For a moment, he just stood there, watching the tiny boy as he gradually dozed off. The bear put its paw around him protectively, and grunted in its sleep.  
  
"Come to bed," said Lily, who was standing at the door.  
  
James sighed, turned away from the cot, and went back to bed.  
  
***  
  
Remus never knew exactly what woke him up. Probably, it was the sudden flash of lightning, and the near-deafening peal of thunder that followed immediately after. He gave a start, and opened his eyes.  
  
The digital clock on his bedside table read 03.40. That meant it ought to be getting light quite soon. But his tiny bedroom was still bathed in oppressive darkness.  
  
Remus could hear the soft patter of rain falling on the leaves of the trees outside. He sat up, and closed his bedroom window a bit. It wouldn't do to get wet, now. The lighthouse at the entrance to the harbour was flashing, a beam of light winking. Lightning briefly illuminated the scene again, and Remus shuddered involuntarily. There had been a time in his life when he had found thunderstorms exhilarating ... a time when, if he saw that tell tale, blinding, electric flash, or heard the distant rumble, or spotted the tall, black, anvil clouds building up, he would run outside to bask in it. He had relished the feel of the rain on his face as he inclined it towards the angry sky, breathed in that heady, humid smell that only thunderstorms bring with them.  
  
But when he was eight, that had changed. If only, he thought, he had not been outside that night. He shuddered again. These days, he hated the elemental force, the unpredictability of it. For he never knew ... nobody did, what might happen during a thunderstorm. Remus drew his curtains tight shut, and relaxed back amongst his fluffy pillows.  
  
But he couldn't quite nod off again.  
  
Deciding, finally, that he needed a drink of some description to set himself straight and send him off to sleep, he threw back the covers, and reached for his dressing gown which, as always, was lying in a crumpled heap upon the floor where he had thrown it.  
  
He wandered through to the tiny kitchenette, flicked on the radio for some light music, and stuck a pint glass under the cold tap. Water gushed out.  
  
Thunder rumbled again. Remus left that tap running, put the glass to his lips, and downed it in one go, then he filled it up again, raised it to his mouth, and was just about to drink when he realised something that made him drop the glass on the floor.  
  
The water had turned red.  
  
The glass hit the tiled floor with a resounding crash, splintering into tiny glass fragments that flew everywhere.  
  
Remus turned off the tap, took a deep breath, and then turned it on again. That same, reddish water was gushing out. Gingerly, he stuck his finger under it. It was warm ... thick ... blood.  
  
Gasping, he looked down at the floor. Sure enough, it was covered in a sticky, red mess, it stained his bare ankles and soaked the soles of his new slippers.  
  
"Oh fuck."  
  
***  
  
The next day dawned bright and sunny, and brought with it fresh, cool air. The repressive, nasty humidity of the previous few days seemed to have lifted from around Godric's Hollow. Even James felt it, as he woke up at seven precisely to find sunlight pouring in through the open windows. The events of the previous night seemed, now, no more severe than a bad dream. He rolled over in bed to put his arm round Lily, but she was not there. Her spot was still warm, though. Perhaps she was making coffee.  
  
Special day ... special day. Hmm.  
  
James climbed out of bed, shrugged off the underpants he had been sleeping in, and crossed to the window. Then he flung it wide open, and for a moment, just stood there. Fucking lucky, he thought, to have a view like this, over the foothills of the Brecon Beacons.  
  
"James, whatever are you doing?" Lily's voice roused him from his reverie, and he turned around, sharpish.  
  
"Looking out the window," he said, although he could feel himself blushing.  
  
"You're completely naked," she said, setting down steaming coffee mugs on the bedside table.  
  
"You said it was important to let my pores breathe," James protested.  
  
"Not in full view of Mid-Wales," Lily replied. "Come back to bed for a while. Harry's still asleep ... I doubt he suspects a thing ..."  
  
"He didn't suspect a thing last birthday, either," said James wryly, turning back to the window. He heard a rustling sound as Lily slipped between the sheets.  
  
"Come back to bed," Lily said again. "I feel quite frisky, this morning."  
  
James grinned to himself as he surveyed the lane, down below. Someone was walking along it. The Muggle postman, by the looks of things. He ducked hurriedly out of sight.  
  
***  
  
"Who's this one from?"  
  
"Fub!"  
  
"No," Lily said, smiling, and holding the birthday card just out of reach of Harry's already sticky fingers. "It isn't from fub. It's from Sirius. Can you say Sirius, Harry?"  
  
"Eeeries!" gurgled Harry, making another spirited grab for the red coloured envelope.  
  
"What does it say?" asked Lily.  
  
"Eeeries!"  
  
"It might do," said Lily, slitting the envelope open, and extracted the card within. It was in the shape of a teddy bear holding a balloon with a large number one on it. Inside, Sirius had scribbled his name in his usual untidy scrawl, and Padfoot had made a paw print for good measure.  
  
"Isn't that nice?" said Lily, waving the card just in front of Harry's nose. Harry grabbed for it, and this time, managed to grasp hold of it in his tiny fists. He promptly shoved it in his mouth.  
  
"No ... not for eating," said Lily, wresting the card free.  
  
"Eat, eat!" said Harry, banging his plastic spoon on the tabletop. His hair already had mushy cornflakes stuck to it. He would need a bath before they could take him anywhere.  
  
James tipped the red envelope upside down. A slip of paper fell out, and drifted to the kitchen floor.  
  
"Hey, look, a cheque."  
  
Sirius, who was leaning casually on the fridge, blushed to the roots of his hair. "Um, yeah," he said. "I thought it might be a good idea for him to have some money put away ... for later, you understand."  
  
James picked up the cheque. In shimmering golden letters, it spelled out, 'I undertake the covenant to pay into the bearer's hands upon redemption, the sum of fifty galleons.'  
  
"That's a ... that's a hefty ... Sirius ... you sure you can afford it?"  
  
Sirius grinned. "It would just have gone on new sparkplugs for Rosalind, if I hadn't given it to you."  
  
It was signed and everything, and bore Harry's name. James pocketed it. "It's far too good for Harry, he'll just eat it."  
  
"He won't be getting a Halloween present, mind," Sirius said. "His other present is upstairs in my bag."  
  
"What is it?" asked James.  
  
"I'll show you."  
  
It turned out to be a large Quidditch Subbuteo set. Sirius set it proudly down on the kitchen table, and Harry banged his fists in delight at the prospect of such a lovely box.  
  
"Fuggle!" he babbled to himself.  
  
"I bought four teams," Sirius said. "The 1972 historic Double-Winning Caerphilly side, the Caerphilly Catapaults, 1980-81 Edition, the Caerphilly Five Hundredth Anniversary Dream Team and the Caerphilly 1981-82 Edition."  
  
"Sense a pattern developing?" asked James.  
  
"Cappily!" giggled Harry.  
  
"How," began Lily, "is this useful for a one year old baby? I rather think you bought this so that you boys could play it, didn't you?"  
  
"Well ... we might have a go," said Peter. "Harry will need to be taught how to play, after all."  
  
"We can help Harry set it up," said Sirius, enthusiastically. He indicated Harry, who was hitting the box with his fists and humming a ditty of his own composition. "He'll have difficulty gluing the pieces together ... tiny fingers, you see. No good with small parts."  
  
"He can have a go, if he wants," said James. "As long as he doesn't try and eat Dangerous Dai." He turned to Sirius. "It's brilliant, mate. Thanks a lot!"  
  
"I suspect he'll have more fun with the box," said Lily, exasperated. "You boys are practically unbearable, sometimes."  
  
Harry shrieked with laughter.  
  
Lily folded her arms and looked defiant. "See, he's happy now because I told you off."  
  
"I got him this, too," said Sirius, sheepishly. He produced from behind his back two smaller, brightly wrapped packages. They glittered in the sunlight pouring in through the kitchen window.  
  
Lily eyed them oddly.  
  
"What would those be?" she asked, suspiciously. "More things Harry can appreciate later in life? A box set of lagers of the world? A gift pack of vindaloo flavoured condoms?"  
  
"Unwrap them and see," said Sirius.  
  
"The second one is partly from me, too," Peter cut in. "It was a bit expensive, so we thought we'd club together. Remus put a couple of Galleons towards it, as well."  
  
Lily raised her eyebrows.  
  
"Do you want to open this one, Harry?" she asked, handing him the smaller of the two packages. It was cylindrical, shaped roughly like an overlarge tube of Smarties.  
  
Sirius leapt in. "I wouldn't," he said, hurriedly. "That one is a bit delicate."  
  
Lily gave him a suspicious look. She was prepared to admit that it probably wasn't a condom. Tentatively, she pulled off the wrapping paper.  
  
"A kaleidoscope?"  
  
Sirius shook his head. "Almost, but not quite," he said. "Give it here, and I'll show you what it does ..."  
  
"You activate the charms," Peter explained.  
  
Sirius nodded, and tapped it with his wand. "Recollectio! Now ... you hold it up to something ... whatever you want. Go on," he handed it to Lily, who took it, looking extremely puzzled.  
  
"What do I do?"  
  
"Hold it up to your eye, and look through it," Peter said. "It's brilliant ... we were playing with it in the shop."  
  
Lily looked through it. Sirius' face swam into unusually sharp focus.  
  
"I still don't understand what it is," she said, squinting slightly. Nobody noticed Harry eating Sirius' birthday card.  
  
Sirius smiled. "Well, it's recording at the minute," he said. "Now, give it here."  
  
Lily handed the kaleidoscope back.  
  
"Now we play it back," said Sirius. "Relinquo recollectionem."  
  
Instantly, the kaleidoscope shot a thin stream of silvery smoke, that looked, Lily thought, not unlike a Patronus, into the air. The smoke swirled around their heads for a minute, and then resolved itself into a crystal clear, moving image of what Lily had seen through it, which floating in midair, repeating itself over and over.  
  
"A memory stick," said Sirius. "Sort of like a miniature Penseive."  
  
"It's lovely," said Lily.  
  
"We thought it might be useful to Harry," said Peter. "To replay his childhood, and so on. You can operate it for him until he's old enough himself."  
  
A broad smile spread across Lily's face. Then she stepped forwards, and took both Sirius and Peter in a hug.  
  
"It's lovely," she said. She seemed to be crying. "He'll love it ... I mean ... he ... he loves it ... don't you, Harry?"  
  
"Bus!"  
  
TO BE CONTINUED?  



	3. Chapter Three.

SYZYGY  
CHAPTER THREE.  
  
When Remus next awoke, he found himself lying on top of his bedclothes, staring up at that mysterious, spreading stain on the ceiling. It called to mind an improperly disposed of corpse in the flat above, and in the right light, resembled the visage of Jesus. Remus fully intended to get around to having words with his landlord about it ... but could never get it together to get round to talking to the man, who was possessed of a fiery temper, two German Shepherds, and a large Jaguar.  
  
He had been sleeping in a draught ... the back of his neck felt all stiff and ached something terrible. Slowly, Remus sat up in bed, and massaged the back of his neck with the tips of his fingers.  
  
Blood.  
  
He got out of bed, and cast guarded eyes about his surroundings. Remus usually felt safe in bed ... sleep was one of few avenues of pleasure which remained open to him. To be able to lose himself, however briefly, in dreams, whatever they might be of, was something that he did not take lightly. Sleep was Remus' respite from his mundane life, and so not surprisingly, he did quite a lot of it.  
  
But this morning, the bedroom seemed eerie. There may well have been bright sunlight pouring in through the gap where the nasty floral curtains didn't quite fit together, and his newly bought clock radio and combination tea maker may well have been telling him that Wonky Dave and the Zany Breakfast Gang would be back with more Crazy Tunes after these messages ...   
  
Blood.  
  
There was something about the bedroom, with all Remus' attendant belongings; the neatly stacked piles of periodicals; the overflowing sock drawer; the bookshelves crammed to bursting point, that spooked him.  
  
Blood.  
  
Remus tried to put such thoughts from his mind. He slipped his feet into his slippers, and, wrapping a towelling dressing gown around himself, went through to his tiny bathroom.  
  
Blood.  
  
Remus turned on the shower so hot that it made his pale, sun deprived skin turn red, and stood there for several whole minutes, allowing the water to trickle down his back and sides, and swirl away down the plughole. Then, he reached for his shampoo, and proceeded to wash his hair, which was growing faster than he could keep it in check these days. It was very nearly his time of the month, and in a few short days, he knew full well he would have locked himself in the flat, with all the curtains drawn, the phone off the hook, and a supply of Pedigree Chum and raw Aberdeen steak in the fridge. Remus didn't especially *like* dog food, but thought it important to play his part properly. Normally, he was practically a vegetarian, though not through health concerns ... he just couldn't afford meat. But whoever heard of a werewolf dining on nut cutlets and lentils?  
  
He stepped out of the shower, towelled himself down vigorously, applied the lotion to that worrying rash across his left shoulder, and then hunted around in the laundry basket for a pair of pants he hadn't worn six times before.  
  
Blood.  
  
Now, dressed, albeit in a pair of Quidditch World Cup 78 commemorative boxer shorts, Remus went into the kitchen, flicked on Radio 4 (the presenters were arguing over the actual 'meaning' of the Royal Wedding), and made tea. Earl Grey, with just a dash of lemon. His one indulgence, save the beefsteak.  
  
He wasn't feeling particularly affluent that day ... work seemed to have dried up lately, and no jobs were forthcoming, and so he ate toast without butter, but with marmalade, and sipped his tea in that very proper manner his mother had taught him. One finger through the handle ... stick the little pinkie out like that ... just so.  
  
After a couple of minutes, he remembered that he had forgotten to send Harry a birthday card.  
  
***  
  
From the back garden of James and Lily's cottage in Godric's Hollow was a clear and unobstructed view across the mountains for what seemed like miles. Little farms nestled in the verdant, green valleys. Somewhere to the east, not too distant, were the vast, ugly, Muggle metropolises of the Midlands ... but from here, it barely seemed plausible that Birmingham even existed.  
  
Peter, his hands plunged deep into the pockets of his jeans, walked slowly along the brow of the hill, looking down on the sparkling waters of Nant Bran in the valley below. From up here, the water, rushing over treacherous rapids which, occasionally, Muggles in canoes would try to shoot, barely made a sound.  
  
He sat down on a dead tree stump, and kicked away the dead leaf litter, digging the heels of his shoes into the soft, damp earth. He clasped his hands together. He could, if he strained his ears, just about hear Harry's shrieks and the splashing of water.  
  
His left arm was itching again. He had been to see his doctor about it, but they had been unable to discern anything wrong with him. It was just a remarkably persistent itch. There wasn't even a rash.  
  
Gingerly, Peter rolled up the sleeve of the shirt he was wearing, and inspected the pale, glabrous skin of his forearm. There was not a mark, not a blemish, nothing to disfigure him in any way. So why, then, did it itch so painfully? Every cream, poultice and magical herb in the business had been unable to help ... every apothecary from Hogsmeade to Diagon Alley had drawn a blank.  
  
Peter became aware of someone walking through the tall grass towards him, causing it to rustle. It was Lily, showered and changed into a flowing, flowery, summer dress that hung down to just below her handsome calves.  
  
"Something wrong?" she asked. "The guests are arriving ... and James will need help with the barbecue."  
  
Peter sighed. Lily sat down next to him on the tree stump, and instinctively, he moved aside to make room for her.  
  
"Tell me," Lily said.  
  
Peter sighed, and kicked up the leaves again with his shoes. He felt suddenly about eight years old again.  
  
"Nothing really," said Peter, "it's just a lot of little things ..."  
  
Lily sighed, "You can't argue with the little things, you know," she said. "Is that itch of yours any better?"  
  
"Still just as bad," Peter said. "Do you ever get the feeling that everything is just too perfect?"  
  
"And something's bound to come along and fuck it up?" asked Lily. "Happens to me all the time."  
  
Peter smiled. He waved his hand in the general direction of the mountain vista before them. "It's just too perfect," he said. "You're very lucky to live here ... you do realise it."  
  
Lily smiled. "James doesn't think so," she said.  
  
Peter nodded. "I know ... but I'd infinitely rather live here than in Gateshead," he said.  
  
"Gateshead's nice too," Lily said.  
  
"That's very sweet of you to say so," Peter said, "but it's not entirely true."  
  
"James," began Lily, "James wants, wants to move back to Guernsey ..."  
  
"The Channel Islands? But those are ... you'll practically be back in France again," began Peter.  
  
Lily sighed again. "I know," she said forcefully. "And don't think I want to go, either. Lord knows I've followed him round the country at the slightest whim. And Guernsey was lovely, but we left for a reason. If we were going to go anywhere, I'd *love* to go back to Tyddewi."  
  
"That's only just down the road," said Peter.  
  
"But it has to be better than this ... look ... Peter," Lily paused briefly. A red admiral butterfly alighted on a leaf nearby. Somewhere amidst the trees, a song-thrush was singing. "Look, I'm not here to gripe about our house hunting woes, what's bothering you?"  
  
"The little things?"  
  
"Those too," said Lily. "If you think it important enough to affect you, then it must be important."  
  
"I just worry," said Peter. "Everything seems so crazy to me ... I know it sounds like a truly awful cliché, but I worry about Harry. I don't want him growing up into this ... this shit."  
  
Lily shuddered.  
  
"I see what you mean," she said.  
  
"You know they're saying," Peter paused, "they're saying He'll be coming for you."  
  
Lily put her arm around his shoulders. "Call him Voldemort," she said. "It's silly to be scared of someone's name ..."  
  
"You always were braver than me," Peter said. "I often wonder what would happen if I ... you know ... met him," he paused. "I mean, would I run away? What would I do?"  
  
"I'd be the one running away," Lily confided. "The very thought. Why did you bring it up?"  
  
"I just get ... get these flashes," Peter said. "It's probably nothing."  
  
He stood up abruptly. "We should get back," he said. "The others will be worried ... and I smell the barbecue from here ..."  
  
A pall of grey smoke was drifting across the vast garden. Music could be heard. Peter and Lily walked together across the lawn, Lily's dress blowing in the light midday breeze.  
  
James was sitting on a deckchair on the buff-coloured patio, watching Harry splashing in his new paddling pool. A yellow rubber duck was bobbing on the surface. James' shirt was unbuttoned to the waist and his legs were still pasty and white. He was holding a can of lager in one hand, and at the sound of their approach, lowered his sunglasses and grinned broadly at them.  
  
"The lovebirds return from the wilderness," he scoffed. "Have you been shagging my wife again, Peter?"  
  
Peter bent to pick up a can from the bucket of cold water where they had been placed to cool, trying to ignore the shooting pains that ran up his arm as he did so.  
  
"Yes," he said, keeping up the pretence of jollity ... it would never do to spoil Harry's birthday, after all. "And she *loved* it," he cracked open the can. "How long are we waiting on lunch?"  
  
James shrugged. "However long it takes," he said. "Besides, nobody else has arrived yet ..."  
  
"Okay."  
  
"And if you touch Lily again, I'll remove your testicles with a blunt asparagus corer."  
  
"Understood," said Peter. He crouched down next to the pool, and was promptly splashed in the face by Harry.  
  
***  
  
Remus splashed cold water at the cat which had taken up residence on his window still. It disappeared with an anguished shriek. Remus returned to his washing up. He had never been that keen on cats. It probably, he reasoned, stemmed from the werewolf thing.  
  
He slotted the last plate into its place on the draining rack, and pulled out the plug. The soapy dishwater disappeared down the plughole with a resounding and rather conclusive gurgle.  
  
Remus pulled down the sash window, and walked through into the hall. There were two letters lying on the doormat, but he ignored both of them, grabbed his keys from their usual hook, opened the front door, and walked out, slamming it shut behind him.  
  
In the days before his monthly peak, Remus quite often found himself suddenly craving the company of other humans. Perhaps it was some kind of appetiser for the anticipated feast to come. Of course, he would never, ever have dreamed of hurting *anybody* in his human form. For him, it was just pleasant to be around other people.  
  
Even though it was barely eleven o'clock, the seafront was already thronged with holidaymakers and day-trippers. Elderly couples wandered listlessly along the seafront, arm in arm. Adults and children alike performed intricate ballets on the beach as they struggled into bathing costumes with towels wrapped around them.  
  
Remus walked to the post box on the corner, outside Woolworths, and posted Harry's birthday card. Ever since he had excluded himself from the company of other witches and wizards, he had declined to use owls to send his mail. So doing, he crossed over the road, and bought himself lunch from the Chinese Chip Shop.  
  
"You all right, love?" the woman behind the counter asked, as she poured frozen chips straight from the bag into the deep fat fryer.  
  
"Hmm, sorry?" asked Remus, who had not been paying attention.  
  
"You look a bit out of sorts," the woman went on. "You need cheering up."  
  
Remus nodded. "I guess so," he said. Conversation with strangers never came easily to him.  
  
"We're having a street party on Saturday ... up on the High Street," she went on, counting out his change in coppers from the till. "You ought to come."  
  
"Street party?"  
  
"Blimey, darling. What planet have you been on? That's twenty eight new pence change."  
  
"I've been a bit out of touch," Remus said.  
  
"For Charlie and Lady Di," the woman said, as if this was the most obvious thing in the world. "You look like you need a good time."  
  
Remus nodded politely.  
  
***  
  
The doorbell went at about half past midday, but it turned out to be only Sirius, who had been down the off licence in Godric's Hollow stocking up on bottles of Pimms and lemonade. Lily disappeared into the kitchen to chop some strawberries, whilst James and Peter played with Harry on the patio.  
  
"Good hot day," Sirius remarked, sitting down on the grass, and reaching for one of the lagers. "Worked up a fair old sweat trekking up from the village."  
  
Harry waddled over, and tried to press a red, plastic spade into Sirius' hands.  
  
"Thanks, what do I want with this?" he asked.  
  
"Dig!" Harry ordered, imperiously.  
  
"What's for lunch?" Sirius asked, making rather half-hearted digging motions in one of the flowerbeds. Harry looked on.  
  
"Chicken," James said, lazily. "Lily's whipping up a salad ... ribs, steaks ... none of those horrible hamburger things."  
  
"Dig!" Harry reiterated, clearly disappointed. He made a half-hearted attempt to climb onto Sirius' lap.  
  
"How's the barbecue coming?"  
  
James looked over at it. The coals were still smoking gently. "A little longer," he said. "The secret is to get it burning really hot, so the meat drips juice down onto the coals, and they evaporate right back into the steaks. Gives it that great smoky flavour."  
  
Sirius shrugged. His culinary expertise barely stretched to heating up macaroni cheese dinners in the oven back in the flat he and Peter shared in Telford.  
  
"Harry ... stop annoying Sirius," James said. Harry made a very petulant, angry face, and toddled off somewhere else. Sirius watched him get about half way down the garden, before falling over with a rather spectacular bump.  
  
"Robust little bugger, isn't he?" said Sirius. Harry picked himself up, and gave chase to the butterfly that had distracted him, which fluttered away into the bushes, beyond the boy's grasp.  
  
James nodded. "Aye, he'll do all right for himself," he said, looking proudly at Harry, who was sitting down on the grass now. He shuddered. To see his own son like this, on his first birthday, enjoying the sunshine and the outdoors, should arguably be one of the best feelings a young father can have. However, James found himself overcome with an icy fear. He wanted Harry back by the house, where watchful eyes could be kept over him. But he *knew* that was silly ... Harry was a matter of yards away. Nothing could possibly happen to him. Nothing here could *possibly* threaten him.  
  
Peter came back out of the house, carrying a large Pyrex bowl, filled almost unto the brim with crisp lettuce, cucumbers and soft, ripe tomatoes. James felt a sudden rush of blood to the head. He felt faint, dizzy and distant. There was a clatter as the spatula fell to the patio.  
  
"Are you okay?" Sirius' voice was distant.  
  
James shook his head violently to clear it, as a wet dog might do after swimming. "I ... I think so," he said. "Just came over dizzy. Is Harry okay?"  
  
Sirius looked out over the garden. Harry was, indeed, quite okay. He probably couldn't have possibly been more okay.  
  
"You not having a good day, Prongs?" Peter asked, setting the salad bowl down on the foldaway garden dining table, and picked James' spatula up for him.  
  
"I just ... I guess I'm just tired," said James. "Work's busy at the minute, you see."  
  
Peter nodded. "We're all tired, mate," he said, sagely, "we're all tired."  
  
***  
  
Remus sat on a bench in the sun, and ate his chips. Behind him, the holiday traffic purred along the seafront. The pale, podgy faces of children were pressed against the glass.  
  
He could hear the distant squawking of a Punch and Judy show down on the beach. He remembered those, distantly, from his youth.  
  
Slowly, and not a little sadly, Remus closed his fingers around another chip, and popped the greasy morsel into his mouth before it burned him. He began to wish he had bothered to buy a can of Coke, as well, or something.  
  
One of the shops on the other side of the road had the radio tuned loudly to the lunchtime news. They were still talking about the Royal Wedding ... they had been talking about nothing else for some months now. Bloody obsessive Muggles, Remus thought, reaching for another chip ...  
  
A shooting pain ran up his arm.  
  
"What the hell?" he said, aloud, to nobody in particular.  
  
It happened again.  
  
Remus set his bag of chips carefully down on the bench next to him, and very carefully rolled up his sleeve.  
  
There was a livid, red mark on his arm. It looked almost like a circle.  
  
END OF CHAPTER THREE.  
TO BE CONTINUED?  
  
DISCLAIMERS.  
  
This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including, but not limited to; Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, as well as Warner Brothers Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. So there.  
  
Wonky Dave previously made an appearance in Sue Townsend's excellent comic novel, 'Adrian Mole: The Cappuccino Years,' 1999, London, or visit www.penguin.com.  
  
James' barbecue tip is adapted from 'Across America with the Boys,' by Matthew Collins, 1998, London, MATC Publishing.  
  
THANKS!  
  
Whew ... enough reviews on the last part! Thanks so much to all of you. In alphabetical order, the list reads; Abbey, addagirl, Alyeskakc, Amy, Angel, Aurora, Avocado, Barb LP, Black Goddess, Bracken, Cail M, Cassie Lee, Chrissy Black, Colin, Cpt. DeBrowe, cwazyboutpadfoot, deeecha, delentye, Destiny, Devoid, Dewi, Dolores, DreamSpinner, elel88, Evilia Malcone, Evita Potter, ex-LongLongHair, Fallen Grace, Gertie Keddle, Gileonnen, Grace, Guy Fawkes, Gwendolyn Grace, Hannah, Hydy, IckleRonniekins, J.J the hinkypunk, jinskid3, Karina, Keieru, L-Dog, Luckfire, Melpomene, minx, MK, Moriel, Nemesis, Parvati&Padma, phat girl, Pheonixx, Pleiades, Portia, Quodpot, rave, ReGina, Rex, Rhysenn, Saitaina A Moricia, Sierra, Silverfox, Starbright, Sweetfires, Sylph,  
The 'Reel' Aisling, Trinity, Viola, Wynster McG, yael, Yucca, and zephyr. Mega-schnoogles to you all!  



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